How Esmeralda Estrus Got Her Revenge

Canto I – Whereas He Wants To Tap That Ass

In the club, lapping at rum and Coke
like a wolf cub on its mother teat,
I see an ass that makes hands clutch
at the thought of grabbing a cheek.
On the dance floor, she twitches.
Oh no, Ian, it is not love that tears
apart my inseam. I step off the stool,
swagger to the dance floor and do
the I-only-want-to-do-you-in-the-face
dance so she’s not so scared of me.

Canto II – Denial Is Not A River. It’s An Ocean.

Once again, another young gentleman
sees this ass that rumor has it, I sold
my soul to have a badonkadonk
that behaves like a cock magnet; this
is not true. I am blessed with a body
that makes God ache for a vasectomy
(how else do you think the Grand Canyon
was made?).
I, Esmeralda Estrus,
am into you hitting this, but the you
isn’t always “you”. It is a you
who does not treat vaginas like Daniel
Plainview, thinks they wield dynamite
like a golem’s gynecologist; you cannot
make me explode if my legs are unsewn.
Oh, Ian, I dance to you because you
I would go back and time to do, perhaps
while he hung himself like a unrequited
love letter, an erotic asphyxiation
without the auto.
But back to the man
with the rum and Coke in his hand
who dare thinks swagger and dance moves
that make tourniquets look sexy think
he will hit this; how will I tell him no?
A drink in the face like the wrong end
of a bukkake scene? Turn down
the temperature of my shoulder so he
is a small plane that crashes and then
he eats himself for survival? Shut
my eyes, clutch my thighs, and dance
like he isn’t there?

Canto III – The Sweet Delusion

She’s into me. I will make her face
like a belfry and make her moan
in sonar. I will be a compass
to the geography she calls
that tight top. She will drop
my guard and know the meaning
of monument. She will only need
my knees to climb toward it,
read the inscription, buy a replica
at the gift shop. Oh and hell and yes
is what I will teach her to say all night long.

Canto IV – In The Stall, Emptying Her Stomach Like A Purse

Rejection is easy, like fucking.
There’s many ways to deny, facial
positions that clearly say “I’m not
into you.” The clack of six-inch heels
can be enough to chisel “Fuck off”
into the vas deferens of any man
who fails to understand the hint.
I don’t fuck men who drink the tropics
like mother’s milk. It means you wear
your heart on an apron string, run
when mother calls you, treat her
like a black hole and you are light.
I stopped breaking into boys
while their parents were upstairs
when I was fourteen. How did I
rid myself of Mister Rum & Coke?
I told him desire was a choke chain.
You should have seen the look
on his face when I walked away;
I would have paid someone to tattoo it
on my lower back so my future suitors
could have a laugh, enough to keep
their seed at bay.

Canto V – The Gynecologist’s Lament

Esmeralda, I have warned you since
you first discovered how to fall onto shafts
that too much action will numb you.
I’ve looked at your walls and see
that the clock hand bruising is three minutes
to midnight. You are not the apocalypse,
Hiroshima on August 16, 1945 at 8:14 am.
You can’t keep burning silhouettes
into your uterus, treat your lips like
you’re pulling back the curtains
at an execution. I know you like chasing
orgasms like fireflies and only fingers,
cocks are strong enough nets to bring you
to them. You look like you’ve got a mausoleum
between your legs. Rest for a while. Learn
the sexiness of dry humping. Take your clit out
for some drinks and dancing, romance it
so you will not need to ride the lightning
to summon it. Your knees can blush
without carpets and whiplash.

Canto VI – On Switching Teams

After the doctor told me to rest
my vagina, I decided to try women
again. Her name was Ramona Ruiz.
The sirens call of Craigslist brought her
to me but sadly, she treated my clit
like a buffet: all over the place
with the salad and the meat
but couldn’t quite bring me
toward the verge of defeat, slake
my thirst of stubble and errant
scrotal pubic hair. Then there was Laura.
She kissed the way cherubs serenade
the sun but I still wear her cuticles
like an IUD. Next, there was Ophelia,
diving between my legs like a shallow
pond; her inadequacy made me wish
she believed in suicide. Oh and to
kick them all out of bed after being done
was an epic task. Blah blah blah
I thought you loved me. Blah blah blah
we can make this work. Blah blah blah
it hurts to be without you. Men
are so disposable, like a bruise or
an empty beer bottle. I understand why
I identify myself as straight, not bi:
women are needy bitches.

Canto VII – The Gallows Go Sober

Loneliness is sobering. When the other side
of the bed is as empty as a fist, it sours
your stomach. The woman dancing last night
was beautiful, moving like electrocution
was something wished for on birthdays,
given to you on Christmas. I thought the rum
and Coke would make me a jet pack her legs
would strap themselves onto so I could show her
what it was like to make love against the stars,
show the planets we were the center
of the universe. “Desire is a choke chain”,
she said. I didn’t understand it, all lubed up
like a cog in a cum factory, but now I do.
Desire is a choke chain, takes away the oxygen
from your brain. They say the wanting
comes in waves but it’s more like a tsunami.
I am Chicago, October 8, 1871. My cells
run around my body, forgetting to stop,
drop and roll. To get her to love me,
I cannot know her like a safe, open her
like a mason jar. She must be a library.
If I see her again, I will ask to check out
the encyclopedia set of her passions,
the how-to books on how to kiss her,
hope to be a part of her autobiography.
Boners are not dousing rods. How can I think
to make her see God if I can’t get her to see
that I am not a pawnshop, a broken home
waiting to happen?

Canto VIII – The Visitor

Esmeralda, Esmeralda, it is the future you
who comes back to warn you: love is not
a minefield, a bear trap waiting to eat
your leg and sell the pulp to the highest
bidder. I have become the ghost
the neighborhood children whisper about,
the monster beneath the bed; they almost
renamed gonorrhea after us. Your lust
is a train with a death wish, you forgot
how to test the worth of lovers with just
a kiss, how not to wear a fist like a barrette.
Sometimes, regret is necessary to learn
from your mistakes, how to use your heartache
to earn someone worthy of loving you.
On your current trajectory, you will turn
into me. Your uterus will give birth to dust.
The suitors will trickle, run dry, stop coming
for you and in you. You will roam around
the house, remember how the walls caressed
your back, how the ruins of bed sheets
worshiped you like a catastrophe god.
You ask how you can change this, how
to stop reassembling and disassembling
your underwear like a rifle. Remember
our words we said to that lout:
desire is a choke chain. You thought
it clever, confounding to the drunk
who wanted to open you like a wrecked
car. Desire is a choke chain. Unlock
the truth behind it and you will not
become me. I promise.

Canto IX – The Past Is A Monster That Eats Itself

I remember my first love, Derrick Worth.
We were fourteen and he made a pedestal
out of his smile he perched me on.
He said when God needed to invent beautiful,
he made me. I know he borrowed his poetry
from boy band lyrics but in adolescence,
you get an A for effort. When he said
he loved me the first time during lunch period,
I wanted him to be the one who wore
my hymen like a promise ring. One afternoon,
we were in his bedroom and the croon
of Usher accompanied our first lovemaking.
It was so awkwardly beautiful. Then,
he cheated, called me a warm up,
a gateway drug, a practice snatch.
I snapped, almost carved this vow
into my wrists: never again. I wore
slut like a gold medal, collected hearts,
used condoms and tossed them behind
my shoulders like fuck-me-not bouquets.
hoping some other girl would learn
from my mistakes. I swallowed erasers,
made up rumors on how my father sold
his soul to make sure I had an ass
that made blind men weep for sight
and amputees fingers to grip it.
I made it all about the lightning,
the orgasm, the only thing that could
never leave me, never deceive me
never need me to believe in them
or myself. I understand this now,
how I let one boy be the hammer
that cracked the glass of my grin,
how he shattered my elbows
so I could never just hold someone.
Should I blame him? No and yet yes.
He was the catalyst for this existence
of collecting one-night stands,
breaking wedding bands. I don’t know
what I would do if I saw him ever again.

Canto X – The Rake Dulls His Own Blades

I’ve been sober for thirty days, stopped
trying to lay with anything willing to open
her legs. I practiced my pep talk in the mirror:
“Derrick, you can’t keep treating yourself
like a collection of STIs and DUI tickets.
if you want to get the woman of your dreams
Your inseam is not a cage nor are your genitals
a zoo for a lucky woman to tame.
Oh bachelor, stop filling pizza boxes
with your ejaculate. It is unhygienic
and worse, unsexy.”
I give myself this talk
every morning to keep my lust in check,
keep my neck from developing whiplash
and wolf whistles. That woman in the club
is more than obsession, she is a holy mission
in which I must find her, show off my sobriety
and hold a conversation that shows
I’m worthy of knowing with our clothes on.
When I prove to her that I am more
than swagger and hollow misogyny,
we will make our mark so when we are gone,
our children remember how we loved each other.
She is no other, no one-night stand,
no hand hired to do one job and one job alone.
I will go to the club every night, sit at the bar,
request “Love Will Tear Us Apart Once More”
and hope Ian Curtis acts like a siren call
toward the dance floor.

Canto XI – At The Club

When “Love Will Tear Us Apart” plays, I yell
“That’s my motherfucking jam” but I don’t shake
my ass like a lure. I let the sadness move
my limbs, move like a funeral procession
instead of a red light district. A real man
will try to step up and talk if he wants to,
push past the sadness and get to know
why I like this song. I see a young gentleman,
dressed in the finest Express outfit credit
can buy. Will he try to pry open my thighs
or my mind?

Canto XII – The Conversation

“Why do you like this song so much”, he says.

“Because it’s the truth. Love can tear us apart,
feed us to ducks and foxes. We then have to walk
like we were incomplete, broken.”

“I completely get it. I’ve seen you before dance
to this song, full of ass shaking and bravado.
I think this is the first time you let your body
tell the truth,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“Esmeralda Estrus. And you?”

“Derrick. Derrick Worth. Please to meet you,
Esmeralda. I think you’re the first Esmeralda
I’ve ever met.”

My hand wants to take off one of my pumps,
puncture his jugular. I would coat candy
with his blood so children know the sweet taste
of revenge.

Canto XIII – The Other Side Of The Story

Why does her name sound so familiar?
History does not repeat itself. It stutters.
No elocution will teach it to speak clearly.
I never wear the past on my sleeve.
It’s easy to never regret the past
when you force yourself to forget your actions.
Besides, I think she’s really into me.

Canto XIV – Revenge Is A Dish Best Served With Cock Rings

Derrick, you forgot me so easily, the way
Usher crooned, how you awkwardly, sweetly
made love to me in that afternoon in 1992
like we were a Lego couple. I loved you
so hard, I broke when you said you never
loved me back, said I was a gateway drug,
a warm up, a practice snatch. To stab you
in the neck or your testicles, too easy.
Seventeen years later, you come around
and forgot to remember that you never
loved me? My dear Derrick, you cannot
treat women like dumpsters. But only
when we met again did you learn
your lesson and I learned my own.
You’ve let desire be your choke chain
still, forgetting when you love like a volcano
the ashes have a tendency to make you choke
when you try to ask for their hand back.
I will not let my desire for revenge choke me.
Boy, you are not worth the man you’ve become.
You did me and you were done. I hope
you never know love, never know the giggle
of children. When it all comes back to you,
I hope the past eats you slowly, gnaws
at your fingers, your neck. When it all comes back,
you will lust like a skeleton, moan like a ghost.
So I part like a thank you letter, hope you choke
on your own words.